Chapter 11: The Power of Love
"Here, I see it," Bors whispered as they bent down low beneath the cluster of trees. His comrades followed his gaze. "There, you see? The center camp? That must be Cynric ."
Arthur nodded, "Yes, good. I doubt Lancelot will be kept in there however. I suspect he should be within the perimeter of the camp. The Saxons do not care enough for their captures to set them well inside with the commander." His green eyes shifted across the border.
"How about that wagon over there? I see something bulky underneath the tarp. Perhaps it is he." Guinevere noted, pointing out the canvas-covered wagon, hiding between two leafy trees. Had it not been for the bright illumination of the full moon tonight, no one would have noticed the wagon there.
"Yes, that would most definitely hold him. Let us go." Arthur commanded. They crept out of their thicket and started moving towards Lancelot's wagon. Their movements were awfully lingering, as they did not want to wake up any of the guards surrounding the camp.
"We must not go all at once. Only a few go and rescue him. We do not know if the Saxons have set up a trap there to fool us, or if the guards will see. We cannot risk us all being captured." Elena instructed. "How about if Galahad, Tristan, and I go and see to him and the rest of you stay in the woods so that you l retrieve him afterwards and keep guard for us?"
Arthur considered the matter very thoroughly before he accepted. Though he wanted to be the first to see Lancelot's condition, he knew that Elena was just as eager as he was. Besides, he would serve well as the watchman instead. He watched as Elena, Galahad, and Tristan started moving towards the covered wagon. The three of them were most certainly the quietest out of all of Arthur's knights, his queen, and he. They hardly made a single sound as they approached the wagon, stooped down low so that they could not be easily seen. Arthur watched in vain, his fingers interlacing tightly with Guinevere .
"It'll be alright, Arthur. We will soon see Lancelot." She reassured.
"Yes, we will." His throat closed up, his insides burning.
Elena's heart contracted faster and faster as they advanced to the wagon. She was terribly afraid that everyone in the campground could hear the beating of her trembling heart. A certain lightness filled her head, filled with images of her beloved Lancelot, these images that made it possible for her to keep moving. She wanted to be the first to see Lancelot, to see if he was still alive or if he was dead. On either side of her, the two knights fell silent in step with her. She knew they were pondering about Lancelot's condition, and she felt utterly grateful that they were there to support her if ever she did need supporting.
"Ready?" Galahad asked to her left. She nodded dazedly as the two of the knights knelt down, grasped the canvas and flipped it over. Her eyes fell down to the person in front of her. She did not move as Tristan took a step back to let the light fall on Lancelot, away from the spot where he lay, his hands bound behind him, on his side. He looked as if he were asleep. Elena stood where she was as her bow dropped out of her loosening fingers and clattered noiselessly onto the grass.
Galahad seemed to be saying something to her. Whatever it was, Elena looked at him without expression; at the center of the static motionless whirlpool she had fallen into, there was no room for any words. She heard no part of what was said to her, nor did she care. It didn't matter anyone. Galahad placed his hand on her shoulder gently, and the next words he spoke broke in through the confusion flooding Elena's mind like pebbles striking through water. "He's dead."
Now Elena did move. Not so much out of volition as out of the fact that her legs had given out. She hit the ground on her hands and knees, and crawled to kneel next to Lancelot. She reached to touch his shoulder, to straighten his dark curls, turning Lancelot's face towards her. As she did, she saw that her own hands were splashed with tiny flecks of blood and the blood came off on Lancelot where she touched him.
"Lancelot," she said. It was reflexive. Not quite having managed to accept it, she assumed Lancelot was already dead. And yet it was impossible. If he had died, she would have known. Surely, if Lancelot was dead, she would feel it, surely that part of Lancelot she had carried inside him since she met him that had linked them together would die, would sputter and be extinguished, and, having dwelled as two persons under one skin, surely she would feel that amputation with the keen pain of a physical wound. Instead, all she felt was a pattern of deadly numbness.
She untied his hands and let his body fall against her. Resting her hand on his head, his voice began to echo in her head, rolling through her mind like wind over water, and she found that she was crying. Her throat burned as she extended her arm and clutched at his cold hand. Her fingers dug into his flesh, and she moaned when his fingers did not make the usual gesture of squeezing her hand in return.
"Tell me now," she whispered desperately. "Tell me what you see. Tell me, Lancelot, if you are flying, if you see me holding you, if you see those who love you hoping you were not dead yet... are you happy Lancelot? Are you fulfilled with your life? Tell me Lancelot!"
With a garbled cry, she pulled herself up from the ground and threw her arms around the knight motionless body. Pressing her face into his shoulder, she wept an ocean. She wept her burning country. She wept a hundred valiant knights, decimated to six. She wept an uncertain future; to a man she loved with her whole heart, which now was home to only a smoky, sweat-drenched memory.
"Lancelot!" Elena gasped, when at last she recovered her breath. Her fingers curled on his chest and she closed her eyes, letting her cheek resting heavily on his breastbone as she panted for air. "Tell me there is no pain. I could not bear it if you felt this pain as I feel it. You have suffered enough lost enough in the life you lived on this earth." Her head shook numbly against his cheek as her eyes opened and she stared vacantly at his chin. "It is dark and wet and miserable here, and I feel none of it for this gnawing in my stomach that tells me you are gone."
A cold night breeze drifted across the back of her neck, and she shivered. "Not you, my Lancelot," she whispered. "Not you. You were never cold." She held him tightly against her breast, tears trickling down her cheeks. They fell on Lancelot face, and seeped down his cheeks as well. Elena kissed his forehead very gently, whispering a prayer of hope.
Tristan and Galahad looked solemnly at the deceased outline of their friend. He looked very peaceful however; more peaceful than Lancelot could ever look alive, as though he had died an undisturbed and calm death, contrast to his nature. Galahad couldn't help but feel his face grow hot with jealousy as he watched Elena caress Lancelot's dark curls. He had always been envious of the Sarmatian knight, who earned Arthur's utmost respect and his dearest friendship, who befriended the prettiest Woad woman and was her favorite knight, who had those luxurious dark curls and that gentle voice that wooed any women to his side and the youngest Sarmatian had always been resentful to Lancelot about that. After all, why should he get to be Arthur's best friend or Guinevere trusted knight? And more significantly, why should he earn the faithful love of Elena?
However, most markedly, why should his eyes be closed and his soul separate from his body? Why should Lancelot, the bravest of all Sarmatian knights, be dead and in Elena's comforting arms? Galahad had wanted more than anything, to be in Lancelot's place, to have handsome looks, a beautiful woman, and Arthur's loyalty but now, more than anything, Galahad wished he were dead instead. He wished he had been tortured and bruised by the Saxons. He wished his blood would run into Elena hands and the others would weep for him. Galahad wished, more than anything, wanted more than life itself, that Lancelot would wake up.
Elena stared unaccustomedly to Lancelot's blank face; so emotionless he did not appear human, so deathly pale he was practically white. "Not you, Lancelot," she whispered breathlessly. "You, who I loved, not because you were brave, although you were, or understanding, although you were that too, or compassionate, which you were- but because you were kind, with the sort of kindness so rare among most people- kindness that not only gives, but gives up. This sort of kindness does not exist in most people, and is so extraordinary and uncommon that when someone lucky, like me, comes along and finds someone with this kindness, they never wish to let them go. You are of a last kind, a kind that is quickly dying out, and soon there will be no more, except for a faded memory."
Arthur did not see what was happening. He was anxious to see his best friend's face smiling up to him, but no one called for him to come forward. Elena had been hunched over Lancelot for fifteen minutes now, behind, Galahad and Tristan on either side of her acting as sentinels. They were all perfectly silent; no sign of jubilation or sadness seemed to float out from the three of them. Arthur didn't know what to expect. He was assuming that Lancelot was between life and death, hanging by a mere thread "Do you think he is well?" a voice shook him from his haunting nightmares. He turned very suddenly to Guinevere, who had asked, then back at the three distinct figures standing over Lancelot body.
"I am going to find out." He replied, and moved forward. He ignored Tristan and Galahad, but focused entirely on what laid in Elena's embrace. He kept walking forward, it seemed as though he was walking down a long, endless corridor and every time he felt his destination so close to reach that it was practically at the edge of his fingertips, it slipped away and he had to follow it again in the same fashion over and over until he didn't know whether he should stop or go top or go. Promptly, he found himself standing over her, his heart thumping with nervous excitement, with earnest seriousness. He looked down and sucked in a deep breath. There he was, Lancelot, his best friend, the most loyal knight, drenched in crimson blood, his eyes peacefully and thankfully closed, so obviously dead. Arthur's mind went blank. He couldn't think nor move. His legs gave way and he fell on his knees, crouching over Lancelot. Elena looked up mechanically at Arthur. The King doubled over. Her eyes-- always dappled in the calmest and most ecstatic sense-- was now dripping with solemn grief.
"Arthur," she whispered under her breath, giving Lancelot her attention, "Arthur, he is dead." She confirmed in an emotionless voice, so very unlike her. He stared at Lancelot's limp form; the knight's blood touched his hands, and his bruised spots freckled in his face.
"He is," Arthur cried noiselessly, fingering Lancelot's dark curls. His best friend, his greatest warrior, his loyal advisor as dead. Was gone. And it was all because of him. Lancelot had died because of him because the Saxons had mistaken him for Arthur. Every bruise he had, every kind of torture he had undergone, every blood he shed, Arthur knew it was in his name. "He died because of me." Arthur echoed his disturbing thoughts.
Trembling, Elena turned to look at him. She did not want him to blame himself for Lancelot's death. She knew it was killing him inside, to believe that it was because of him that Lancelot had died so young, so brave. Elena wished she could blame him too, but she could never point the finger. She wanted to hold responsibility as much as Arthur for Lancelot's death. She wanted to be accountable and feel shamefaced just as badly as he felt. Her shaking hand made contact with Arthur and she whispered-- "It is not your fault, Arthur. It never was."
"But it is. As much as you like to say it isn't, you know it is, Elena. The Saxons came to take me. Instead, they captured Lancelot. He was acting for me because he did not wish for my death. He died for me! My brother died for who I am." Tears found their way down his cheek, and he bowed his head in shame. Elena leaned a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Arthur, I said that I loved Lancelot, not because of who he is, but because of who he made me. You say Lancelot died for who you are. No, Lancelot died for a greater cause: love. If there is anything to die for, it is for love. He died because of his love for you. As we look deeply within, we understand our perfect balance. There is no fear of the cycle of birth, life, and death. For when you stand in the present moment, you are timeless. Time does not change us; it just unfolds us.
Lancelot lived a decent life. He triumphed, he lost, he was a man of deep honor, and he knew love. Half of our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save. Lancelot never did that. He never wasted a minute to speak his mind, an hour to triumph or lose, or even a day to tell someone he loved them. So, do not weep for Lancelot. Instead, embrace his life. He would have wanted that more than anything else."
Arthur raised his head gradually and took a momentary look at Elena. Her eyes were swerving with a grave send-off, something so unfamiliar about her looked out, as though she had accepted everything.
"Elena, did you love Lancelot?" Arthur suddenly asked.
"Yes. Of course I did. I still do." She whispered breathlessly. She laid her trembling hand back on Lancelot's shoulder, and then found the amulet his sister had given to him before he left Sarmatia. Elena sighed heavily as she thought of Sarmatia. The brave knight hadn't even gotten the chance to go home before the end of the war. Elena got up from the ground, turned, and took a step.
"There is a saying in Sarmatia," Arthur said, and she stopped moving, her back to him. "It says that when a mighty warrior dies-"
"He returns to earth as a great horse," Elena finished for him, not looking back. "I have been told."
She heard leather creak as Arthur stood behind her. "Horses are amazing creatures," he explained. "Intelligent, valiant, loyal. Without them, a knight is nothing more than a foot soldier."
Footsteps approached as Arthur moved to stand at her side. She did not look at him.
"Intelligence and courage are impossible to tame," he said quietly. "We imagine the beasts we ride are domesticated, but all you need do is look in your horse's eye to know that you ride him because he allows it, not because it is your right." She saw him glance over his shoulder out of the corner of her eye, towards Lancelot's body. "I think perhaps that is why we are waiting here. We are waiting for a sign to tell us where he waits. It is an desirable place, I expect."
"How so? Now, we cannot speak to him."
"No more than we could before." Arthur stated. Elena knew what he meant. Lancelot was a man of worldly, impressive words, and most of the time, it was either quips or sarcastic comments that came from his mouth, not much more than simple conversations. "That is what is important, Elena. Not what separates us, but what connects. Lancelot did not need to see you to know you were there. Just as you do not need to see him now to know he still lives, albeit in some different form." Arthur was behind her; so close Elena could feel his breath against her neck. She dared to look at him, so noble and tolerant of Lancelot's death.
"Arthur, promise me you will burn Lancelot's body when we get back to Camelot. He said to cast his ashes to a strong eastern wind." She had expected him to be surprised, to be shocked, and to be angry at such an incongruous request. Instead, he simply nodded and picked up Lancelot's limp body from the ground. It was the least he could do for his best friend. To give him his dying wish.
"If he requested so, then it will be done. Now come, it will be a long way before we reach Camelot." Arthur's voice turned mechanical again. He started towards his knights, with Elena at his heels. She felt Galahad and Tristan falling behind her as they walked towards the rest of the knights.
Arthur came to a rest in front of his Knights of the Round Table, and his wife. He carefully laid Lancelot's body on the sopping grass, letting Lancelot's frail arms fall onto his chest, and his dark curls to bounce uncharacteristically into his face. Elena shut her eyes as she heard the many gasps of the others. She heard Guinevere's pronounced short intake of breath, along with Bors' ragged, uneven breathing. To her left, she heard the wheezing of Gawain. To her right however, stood Arthur, who did not express any emotion. She used her peripheral vision to see him, not possessing the strength or desire to look directly at him. She could feel his eyes burning through her however; feel his green eyes pierce through her like flashing balls of fire.
"Here, lies not only the greatest Knight of the Round Table, nor the most courageous or the most willing warrior, here lies our friend, our brother, our love," and at this, Elena chanced to look at Arthur as he articulated the word 'love'; she knew he meant her. "While I was absorbed by my idealistic vision of how the world could be, Lancelot was more grounded in the cold and filth of how the world truly is. However, no matter how arrogant, cocky, or passionate he was, he has remained absolutely dedicated to me, the loyalist friend I could ask for. And skillful with his two swords, he feared no enemy. He was a charismatic fighter, but more importantly, a sincerely benevolent soul. To him, I raise my eyes to the Heavens and declare: may he rest in benevolent peace forever." He bowed his head in silent prayer, the others following suit.
Elena bent down to Lancelot's side, and leaned downward to kiss him, all the more gentle on the cheek. As the moonlight hit Lancelot's pale face, the kiss glinted in a starlike shape, dancing in the vivacious light. And slowly, the starlike shape began to spin in a revolving wheel aster and faster, gaining more momentum with every passing second until he star spun out from its form and floated past the knight, past the surrounding hushed audience, past the tops of the trees and into the dark canvas of night. Elena watched as the starlike impression started to glow in Lancelot's face, and edged very carefully to his forehead. And all of a sudden, a blast of light was sent into Lancelot's body, so that he jerked uncontrollably. Everyone watched in awe as the starlike shape finally submerged and disappeared, leaving the world black.
At this point, Lancelot's body began to quiver. His hand began to tremble hysterically, and his breath came out uneven and in short breaths. His heart pounded very slowly, but he was undeniably alive. Elena put her hand across his heart, and a great surge of hope washed over her. She bent down next to his ear and began talking in a hushed whisper, urging the knight to revive. Arthur bent down as well, seized Lancelot's other hand, and began to rub it forcefully. The combined efforts of the people Lancelot loved most in life had managed to recover the poor knight back into life. He began coughing out blood crimson, dark blood that stained his shirt and Arthur and Elena's hands. Then he lifted one eyelid to peer into his outside world. He had expected the shadows of the Saxons, but instead, was welcomed by the friendly faces of Arthur and Elena. He cried aloud in shock, but a wonderful, calming sensation flowed through his veins and caused him to cry. It was the feeling of being back home, of being safe and protected, and of being loved. It wasn't just a feeling, it was an incredible sense of awareness.
Lancelot lifted his left hand gingerly to touch Elena's face. She immediately caressed it over her cheek, tears oozing out of her eyes. Lancelot noticed the tears, and with his thumb, wiped them before they reached her chin. He half-smiled, "Grief is the agony of an instant, while the indulgence of grief is the blunder of a life. Courage, Elena or it is a magical talisman before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish into the air. It is what brought me back to you. It drives you and me and everyone around us. I never wanted you to waste your tears on me."
"That wouldn't have taken courage, Lancelot. That took my love for you. I wept because I thought I lost you. I thought I lost my love." She said, aware of his fingers increasingly warmer than before.
"You would have never lost me, because whether I am here beside you or traveling in the skies above, I would never leave your side. I am always here for you, in physical or spiritual form. Romances begin for all kinds of reasons, but when all is said and done, most of them have one thing in common. They are shooting stars, a spectacular moment of light in the Heavens, fleeting glimpse of eternity, and in a flash they are gone, but not our love. Not the love it took to bring me back, or the love that brought you here to my side. No, that kind of love is unsurpassed in this world of arrogance and greed. That kind of love is not just one moment of Heaven, it is an endless show."
Her eyes were filled with tears, starlike that glistened in the light. "Life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences. No, rather, it is a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan. I have concluded that if we are to live life in harmony with the universe, we must all possess a powerful faith in what the ancients used to call 'fatum', what we currently refer to as destiny. I do not know what my destiny is or what yours is, but I do know that in love, destiny has brought us together because we love each other, and this love will protect us time after time. This type of destined love is not fit for everyone nor even evident in some people's lives, but we're fortunate to have this."
Lancelot nodded, "I know. I consider it very fortunate to have met someone like you." Lancelot boasted. He intertwined his fingers with hers, practically glowing.
"As with me." Elena replied, bending forward to catch his kiss. It was the comforting, familiar feeling of being in Lancelot's arms again, of sharing kisses with him, and of a passionate feeling that still burned. "I love you." Elena whispered into his ear. Lancelot smiled and repeated the message back to her. Sighing contentedly, the knight leaned backwards into the grass and looked to his right.
Arthur. He could see through his best friend. He saw the concern and fear in his friend burning green eyes, and the encouraging face he wore when he was in an uneasy situation. Lancelot knew he had caused his friend pain, knew that his primitive 'death' had enthused unnecessary nervousness into Arthur's untainted heart.
"Forgive me, Arthur. I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted to." Lancelot squeezed his fingers. The King immediately hushed him.
"No, Lancelot. Forgive me. I sent you here. I was the hand who brought you to the edge of death. Had the Saxons captured me instead, who they were looking for, you would not have been in such torture. I ask for forgiveness, my brother, for what I have done. I never once faltered in my duties as the King or the commander, but here, I weaken because I have hurt you. I curse myself because of my poor discretion. I'm sorry, Lancelot. Please forgive me." He bowed his head, the first time he had done so to one of his knights. Lancelot was deeply touched.
"Arthur, you have done nothing that allows you to ask for my forgiveness. This was not your doing, and whatever you believe is your cause, it never was. Arthur, I am here because of my choosing. I am here because I am a knight, and I intend to follow you wherever you may be. And if that includes protecting you till I die, then so be it. A leader would take people places where they want to go. A great leader takes people places where they don't necessarily want to go, but ought to be. You are one of these great leaders, Arthur. There is a quality you possess that effects our decisions. We follow you because we choose to, not because you asked us or made us but because we want to."
His captain swallowed the heavy lump in his throat. "Lancelot, I know I do not express my gratitude enough, but, you must always know that you are my greatest knight of all and my truest, most loyal friend. Without you, I wouldn't know how to live. We have known each for so long, that we have accomplished intuition to know what the other is thinking and what he is feeling. I never want to let this go. I never want to let this feeling fade." Arthur declared in his softest voice. The Sarmatian knight smiled at his commander's dedicated words and closed his eyes. Freedom never felt so sweet-- to be in the safe embrace of his childhood friend to his sweet, dear love was all that defined freedom as of that moment. Nothing else mattered. Even as they stood on enemy grounds, none of them cared less than about each other. And that was the way it was, and will always be.